He is more, whispered her rebellious, inner self.
He has been kind to you, she replied fiercely. He likes you, yes, but only as he would like any intelligent, educated person. You like him for the same reason. Anything more that you feel is only gratitude for his having rescued you from Paris, and for having appreciated you where the Murrays did not.
Protest, from the inner self.
It must be so, she told herself firmly. You cannot live in this man’s house and teach his children, and harbour any secret feelings towards him. To do so would be not only wicked, but unspeakably foolish. Admire him, respect him, serve him: there is nothing else. His feelings are all for his wife. Have enough self-respect not to offer, even inwardly and secretly, what is not wanted, would never be wanted.
Suddenly her father’s face came clearly before her, looking at her with that expression of affection and pride that she remembered so longingly. I won’t let you down, Papa, she thought determinedly. The Count was Papa’s friend, and so she would think of him, always, always: her kind employer, and Papa’s genial friend. The inner voice retired, vanquished, and Anne prepared herself for bed calmly, almost serenely. You can do anything you want, Anne, if you set your mind to it, her father had said once, and she believed it. She believed firmly in the power of the intellect, even over the atavistic forces of nature.
‘Now we are on my land,’ the Count said, leaning forward to look out of the window, though since there was no moon, it was almost quite dark, and only the eyes of love could have discerned anything beyond the shapes of the nearest trees. ‘We should see the lights of the house soon. If it were daylight, you would get a fine view of it from this road. You must see it tomorrow, Miss Peters. It is quite remarkable – one of a kind,’ he added, laughing as if at some private joke.
‘Does it have a black tower?’ Anne asked, thinking of the name.
‘Oh yes. I shall show you everything tomorrow. A complete tour, just as if you were in England and visiting a great house, like Blenheim Palace. Yes, I did those things when I was there on my Grand Tour. I was the compleat traveller, I promise you! Ah, there are the lights at last!’
A few minutes later they turned off the road on to another track, and leaning forward, Anne could see the flaring lights of torches, and the shapes of people moving about near them. She sat back, and in the darkness of the carriage, put a nervous hand to her hair. She had dressed carefully that morning in her blue travelling-dress and her smartest hat, though the sensible part of her mind knew that in the excitement of such a homecoming, no one was likely to notice what she was wearing. Now there were men running along beside the carriage and voices shouting, and as they lurched to a halt, both doors were opened simultaneously and a babble of voices and laughter surged in. A round-faced man grinned up at Anne, letting down the step on her side of the carriage and holding out a hand like a plank of wood to help her down.
All was confusion for the next few minutes, a jumble of the ragged, yellow light of torches and slashes of shadow, the smell of pitch smoke and horses and sweat, laughter and Russian greetings, and people pressing forward to greet and exclaim. Then there was the Count, his long, cool fingers finding her hand, and drawing it firmly under his arm to guide her through the throng, into a dark doorway, up some chill and echoing stone steps, and into a large, brilliantly lit hall. Anne glanced around, gained the impression of rococo plasterwork and trompe-l’oeil Corinthian pillars, crystal chandeliers and enormous dark oil paintings in gilded frames, just like the hall of an English Great House. A large man in livery – the butler, surely? – was wringing the Count’s hand and actually weeping with pleasure, while various other domestics and a number of handsome, black and white dogs stood around and grinned their delight. Anne’s name was mentioned, and the butler bowed low and said something to her by way of welcome, and she smiled at him in a rather dazed way, and the Count began drawing her towards the door at the far end of the saloon.
And then the door opened, and a small figure came running towards them. Anne thought at first it was a child, for it was so small and thin: little feet in satin slippers flickered below the hem of a white muslin gown; little hands stretched forward from the sleeves of a vivid scarlet and gold silk Chinese jacket; a small face, pinched and eager, was surrounded by curls of soft hair the colour of clear honey. Surely it must be the count’s daughter, was Anne’s first thought.
But the little creature ran to his arms, the voice cried ‘Nikolasha! Eto ti?’ in a tone of such urgent love that Anne knew everything, even before the Count swept his wife off her feet, holding her in his arms well above the ground in a grip that must have hurt her, and saying in a voice made hoarse by emotion, ‘Irushka! Milyenkaya! Doushenka!’
Anne watched with a painful mixture of emotion, pleasure that one must always feel when witnessing real, unselfish love, and a pang of sadness that there was no one in the world who loved her like that. Then at last the Count restored his Countess to the floor, and taking her hand, turned her to face Anne, and said in French, ‘Irina Pavlovna, here is Miss Peters whom I told you of in my letter – Admiral Peters’ daughter, who has consented to be our little Lolya’s new governess. You must make her feel very welcome, for she is all alone in the world and far from home.’
The Countess looked up at Anne with a shy smile, and held out her slender hand. ‘Mademoiselle Peters, I am so happy to welcome you to Schwartzenturm. You must look upon it as your home, if you please.’ She turned towards a servant who had come in behind her, and took from him a tray, which she proffered to Anne. On it was a silver plate and a small silver dish, the former containing a little round, golden-brown cake, the latter a fine white powder Anne took to be pulverised sugar. Anne looked questioningly towards the Count.
‘It is an old Russian custom’, he explained genially, ‘to offer bread and salt to a person taking up residence in a new place; but nowadays, we often represent them with cake and sugar instead, as being more palatable. You must taste a little of the cake and a pinch of the sugar – that is your part in the ceremony.’
Anne did so. There was a murmur of approval and welcome, and the Countess smiled as she returned the tray to the servant and said, ‘You are completely among friends now, mademoiselle. I hope you will be happy.’
‘I’m sure I shall, madame,’ Anne replied. The Countess was beautiful, she observed, with that wistful quality of beauty which makes one feel almost sad. The wide Tartar cheekbones, the small, straight nose, and little pointed chin were the delicate setting for her beautiful amber-coloured eyes, fringed with feathery dark lashes, which shone with a soft and lovely light when she looked at her husband. Anne’s words were more than a formal politeness. The Countess’s expression was truly gentle and benign, shy as a wild animal is shy, but genuinely welcoming. It would be impossible, Anne thought, to do anything but love such a lovely creature, and she felt ashamed at the ambiguity of her thoughts the night before.
‘But you must be so tired,’ the Countess continued. ‘Come into the drawing-room; there is a supper laid out all ready for you, and tea.’
They passed through the end door into the staircase hall, where a great staircase wound ceremoniously round three sides, leading up to a gallery with a wrought-iron balustrade, and vistas through archways to vaulted corridors beyond. Anne caught a glimpse of something white crouched behind the balustrade, and thought it must be another dog, but almost instantly it jumped up and came running down the stairs, to reveal itself as a little girl in a white nightdress, with bare feet and curl papers in her dark hair.